


Christmas Eve Will Find Me (Where the Lovelight Gleams)

by SOMETHINREAL



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Christmas Party, Drinking, I don't know what I'm doing, M/M, Mild Angst, Secret Santa, Self-Loathing, Set in 1950, Smut, but not really, kinda???, mild Dom/Sub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMETHINREAL/pseuds/SOMETHINREAL
Summary: This year, the marines wanted to throw a little get-together at Leckie’s place, and of course they invited Merriell. He thinks that they probably didn’t want to, because all he ever did back in the war was annoy them, but it’s been five years, and a pity invite is just courteous.(alternatively: merriell is dreading christmas this year because not only will he have to see sledge again, but he also got sledge's name in the ridiculous secret santa that chuckler put in place. he overthinks too much and is a self-loathing bastard, but that's just typical, isn't it?)





	Christmas Eve Will Find Me (Where the Lovelight Gleams)

There’s nothing Merriell is dreading more than Christmas. Typically he’s pretty indifferent to it-- back home in Louisiana, his parents never took it too serious, especially not as he got older, especially since he grew up in the depression, so it was never really important. Each passing year, he doesn’t have anyone to spend it with, so he doesn’t even bother setting anything up besides a sad excuse for a miniature Christmas tree in the corner of his studio apartment. Sometimes he’ll get a letter from De L’Eau. Last year Burgie sent him a card with a picture of him and Florence in it, alongside some cash for him to ‘buy something nice’ with. Besides that, it doesn’t matter much.

But this year, he wants absolutely nothing to do with it. This year, the marines wanted to throw a little get-together at Leckie’s place. And of course they invited Merriell. He thinks that they probably didn’t want to, because all he ever did back in the war was annoy them, but it’s been five years, and a pity invite is just courteous. The letter said it was small, just a few of the guys held out in Philly. Leckie, Chuckler, Burgie, Leyden, De L’eau, Sledge. Eugene Sledge. The reason Merriell is dreading this more than anything. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t like Sledge. Because he does; in fact, it’s the opposite. He and Eugene had a peculiar relationship, and perhaps that’s why he he dreads it so much, because he and Sledge  _ had _ such a peculiar relationship, because he left him on that train. And maybe he’s dreading it so much because he doesn’t want to know what Eugene thinks of him anymore, if he hates Merriell, if he makes Eugene dread Christmas too. Or, perhaps it’s because Merriell doesn’t want to know what Eugene is doing now. Because he doesn’t want to see Eugene with a girl and kids being happy together, because he’s alone, because he  _ misses _ Eugene. Or maybe it’s because he got Eugene for the stupid fucking Secret Santa thing that Chuckler put in place. 

Only he would choose something so idiotic for a shitty Christmas party. And of course Merriell would get Eugene for the Secret Santa. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or the worst thing that could possibly happen to him. Maybe it’s good because Merriell knows him so well, even after all these years. Or maybe he doesn’t anymore. It’s not '45 anymore. It’s 1950. Five years since the war was over. Five years since Merriell left Eugene. Maybe he’s different now. Merriell starts to think about him. He wonders if Eugene still keeps his hair in that stupid swept over way, if his skin’s still got freckles, if he’s still gentle and kind, even though he doesn’t want to be. Then Merriell starts to think about how different he could be. He wonders if Eugene wears glasses now, or likes tennis shoes more than those fancy ones with the brogues that his parents used to put him in. Maybe he wears jeans instead of slacks and combs his hair back. Maybe he’s not Eugene anymore. Maybe that’s what scares Merriell.

 

-

 

He’s never had snow for Christmas, and it’s a little bit weird. He’s also never had his fingers go numb while trying to smoke a cigarette, which is probably the most annoying thing he’s ever had happen, besides how the wind keeps blowing the smoke into his eyes and making them sting and water. He’s just a bit of a mess. He’s got Eugene’s gift tucked into his coat so it doesn’t get wet with the snowfall, and he’s stressing about that too, not to mention that he’s not even sure Eugene will like it. He hopes he does. God, Merriell would die on the spot if Eugene opened up his gift and didn’t like it, especially after all of the shit that Merriell put him through. 

He stubs out his cigarette with his toe before he knocks at the wooden door, careful of the pretty wreath that they’ve got hung, the green stark against mahogany. The house looks simultaneously too normal but just enough out of character that it fits Leckie. It also looks like it’s had one too many normal white-folk get togethers. He toys with the wrapping on the present and shoves it further into his jacket. Bob looks different when he opens the door. Older, more weathered. He’s still handsome, still has his kind eyes, but it’s different. They stand for a few seconds in silence while they eye each other. Leckie offers a smile. 

“Hey, Snafu.” Right. He’s still Snafu to them. He hasn’t been Snafu since he got off that train. He’s been Merriell ever since. It’s weird to hear the name on someone else’s tongue again. “Or, did you want me to call you Merriell?”

“Snafu is fine, Leckie.” 

“How you been? Merry Christmas by the way.” As much as he doesn’t want to do this, he would much rather do it inside, where he’s sure his limbs won’t fall off from frostbite. 

“We doing this out here? I’m freezin’ my ass off.” Bob smiles apologetically, opening the door wider. “Been fine,” Merriell says, even though he hasn’t. Leckie points to the closet when he kicks off his boots, so he puts them there. Back at home he probably would have just left them askew. “Merry Christmas to you too. Thanks for, um, inviting me.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Leckie asks, like he really doesn’t know. 

_ Because everyone hated being around me,  _ Merriell wants to say, but he doesn’t, because he knows that Leckie would probably try (and fail) to say something to make him feel better about himself. Instead he says, “Lotta reasons,” and plasters on a once-typical-now-foreign smirk because he doesn’t want them to know he’s not the man that they remember him as.

Leckie opens his mouth, but all of a sudden Chuckler bursts out of the living room and tackles Merriell into the closed door. 

“Snafu fucking Shelton, it’s been years! I missed your annoying ass.”

“Get the fuck off me, ya’ shitbag. Haven’t even taken off my damn coat and I’m already being harassed.” This makes him nuzzle further into Merriell and sighs reverently, but in a drunk-sarcastic kind of way. “You’re squishing my fuckin’ present, Chuckler.” Lew gets off him at that and grins. He’s already shitfaced, Merriell can smell it on him, some bourbon, maybe. Spiked eggnog. He just shrugs and prances off like nothing happened, the idiot. Leckie sighs. 

“He got into the drink early.” 

“Thought that’d be me. You make sure I don’t make a fool’a myself like that, yeah?” Leckie smiles, nodding. 

“You can put your present and coat in the bedroom down the hall. The rest of us are in the living room and kitchen, but we’re still waiting on a few.” 

He and Leckie were never really close, even way back when, but he was always nice to Merriell, even if Merriell wasn’t the nicest in return. They talked a lot more the six months they were stationed in China before they went home, having known each other through Eugene, but also just knowing each other’s names from other marines. He was actually one of the only guys, besides the others at the party, who wasn’t scared of or annoyed by Merriell. Before he used to confide in the fact that nobody liked him, because it meant that he wouldn’t be bothered or questioned and he could have fun, but now it embarrasses him. Now he doesn’t want to think about it. 

Merriell stays an extra few minutes in the bedroom because one) he needs a moment to collect himself, as he realizes now that he doesn’t have anywhere to go since he doesn’t live here and doesn’t know where anything is; that he’s trapped now with other people, his fellow veterans (friends? Merriell doesn’t  _ have  _ friends), and he doesn’t even want to be because he’ll suffocate and two) he hears the front door open and a voice that sounds so familiar yet so different that Merriell thinks he might be sick. He has to leave; he can’t stay in this bedroom forever, no matter how appealing it is, but the mere thought of stepping foot out of this safe space seems so much harder than anything he’s ever had to do in his life. But he will. He just needs to pretend he’s his old self. The one that didn’t care about anything (or, at least the one who acted like it). 

Except, things never go as planned for Merriell (something he’s learned over the past few year), and he walks straight into someone. Straight into Eugene. Their shoulders bump and before Merriell can apologize, Eugene speaks. 

“Snafu,” he says, his tone and face unreadable. “I haven’t seen you in forever.” It’s oddly welcoming for the way they left off. 

Much to Merriell’s joy, Eugene is exactly the same as he used to be. Broader, maybe, his voice a little deeper, but he’s still soft looking with his stupid parted hair (that’s no longer that soft auburn, but now a muddled brown that makes him look older, more weathered) and his gentle eyes and never-fading incredulous expression. He’s wearing an ugly Christmas sweater with christmas trees knitted into it that he shouldn’t look good in (but does, because it’s Eugene) and a pair of black slacks that hug his skinny legs well. He shouldn’t look good in any of it, but Eugene looked breathtaking even covered in mud and blood, so why wouldn’t he look good now? 

Merriell’s throat runs dry when he takes in Eugene’s words. They should be cold, but they’re not. “It’s been a while,” he agrees, avoiding the elephant in the room cautiously. 

“Five and a half years,” Eugene tells him, but he’s smiling. “It’s been over five years.”

Merriell nods, unsure of what to say.  _ I missed you _ , he wants to tell Eugene, but he won’t. He can’t. When he finally figures something out, Burgie is calling for them. They scramble apart awkwardly, neither of them realizing how close they’d remained to each other, and walk to the living room.

From there it’s kind of blurry. Merriell vaguely remembers Burgie introducing Florence, The other guys introducing their wives, and the fact that Eugene showed up alone just like Merriell did, also Chuckler falling over everyone while singing along to the Bing Crosby Christmas record playing on the gramophone. And it’s not very exciting, because it’s Bing Crosby, but Chuckler still makes it work. 

Eugene doesn’t talk to him until dinner, but stares at Merriell intently every time he mindlessly pipes up to make a retort that makes it seem like he’s paying attention. He’s not paying attention to any of it, not Chuckler being his typical self, not Jay’s half-assed attempts to push Lew off of him when he sings a particularly dramatic-sounding line, not Burgie rolling his eyes as Florence curls into his side in an attempt to cower away from the drunk man, because he’s using all of his energy to make it look like he’s not extremely aware of Eugene staring him down. 

But he likes it. He wants Eugene to look at him. He wants Eugene’s attention more than anything. So he turns his head in a way that makes it his jaw stick out prettily. The kind of way that used to get the boys to talk to him in the underground bars for people like him; the ones nobody ever knew about. The way that used to entice the Navy boys back before Merriell was a Marine, but not enough that it’s noticeable that he wants to make himself look better. Just enough to keep Eugene interested. Just enough to let him know. 

Soon enough Vera calls them all for diner, and by default that makes Eugene look away, which by default makes Merriell deflate, but he still follows everyone else to the table. 

“So, Gene,” Burgie says eventually, once they’re all pleasantly (except for Lew, who surprisingly opts out of drinking entirely) tipsy on red wine, and in Merriell’s case bourbon, and halfway through dinner. “How’s life? You’re one of the only ones here without a lady. You got one back home?” 

Eugene’s cheeks turn a delightful shade of red. “No, I’m married to my work.” Merriell almost scoffs. The comment seems almost typical for Eugene. Married to his work. Go fucking figure. 

“What do you do?” Jay questions.

“I’m a botanist.” 

“I heard they make good money,” Lew says through a mouthful of mashed potatoes and turkey. He points his fork at Sledge curiously, like Eugene is just going to tell the whole table how many figures he makes. 

Merriell all of a sudden feels extremely unaccomplished. He knew that Eugene had an interest in it even during the war. He’s seen all the little doodles of plants that he would find with the little note -  _ look up back home. _ Merriell used to think Eugene was crazy to believe he’d ever be going home. He used to think he was crazy for hoping that Eugene would be the one to go home of the two of them, because it would probably mean less for Eugene to lose Merriell than vice versa, especially if Merriell had no control over it. 

Eugene shrugs nonchalantly, trying to brush it off. “It’s pretty good.” 

Merriell thinks they ask him next, and he thinks he responds with something casual that won’t get them asking many questions, but he’s not entirely sure, still trying to get himself to calm the fuck down and act like he used to. Before he went soft. Before when Eugene’s presence didn’t turn him to mush.

It’s not long before Vera and Florence (when had they left the table? And when had they become friends?) call them for their gifts so they can clean up the table. 

Maybe this is the moment that Merriell has been dreading most. Maybe it wasn’t seeing Eugene again after all this time. Maybe it wasn’t having to put on his brave face and act like he’s still the tough no-shit-giving Snafu that they used to know. Maybe it’s just the fear, the excruciating pain of having to wait to find out whether or not Eugene will have liked his gift. 

They all sit in a circle like they’re in pre-school, all criss-crossed with their hands in their laps as if they’re not grown ass men in their thirties or making their way there. The presents sit in a pile in the middle, some wrapped better than others. Some with bows. A lot of them are wrapped in actual holiday paper, but two or so are wrapped in newspaper, which is also nice. Three of them look like they’re going to fall apart, but Merriell gives them an A for effort. 

“Who’s gonna be Santa?” Bill asks, scratching at his beard. 

“We’re all Santa, pipsqueak. That’s the fuckin’ point,” Merriell tells him through a grin, his smile only widening as he gets flipped off by none other than Pipsqueak himself. Eugene scoffs. 

“I think he means ‘who’s handing out the gifts’, Snaf,” he says, looking at Merriell incredulously, like he’s not used to this, like Merriell being an asshole isn’t what he’s always been like. 

“Of course that’s what he fuckin’ means. I’m just being a dick.” 

Bill laughs. “That ain’t nothin new. I volunteer Jay to hand out the gifts.”

“Why me?” De L’Eau asks through a frown, like reaching in the middle of the circle and handing out the gifts is so much work. 

“Because we like watching you suffer.” Bob grins, leaning back on his elbows. 

“And you make the cutest damn Santa,” Chuckler slurs drunkenly, pointing an accusing finger at Jay, whose frown deepens.  

Jay groans. “At least vote on it. All in favour of me--” but before he can finish, all the men raise their hands, trying not to laugh. And it isn’t that funny, but they’re all tipsy and need something to lighten the mood. 

Defeated, De L’Eau hands the gifts out one by one, and they decide to go counter-clockwise from Bill, which means that Eugene is last. (Which also means that Merriell is shitting himself). The gifts are pretty discreet and bland, nothing super personal, which  _ also  _ makes Merriell shit himself. His gift is one of the ones that are wrapped nicely and not one of the ones wrapped like they were just thrown into a ball of paper and hastily taped, which he honestly expected for himself. It’s a special import king-sized pack of cigarettes and a shiny gold lighter. He eyes the group of men, and Burgie looks guiltiest, so Merriell bets it’s fair game and nods a little thank you. 

When it gets to be Eugene’s turn, Merriell tries his best to remain calm, but he feels like he’s dying. Eugene is careful in removing the wrapping paper that Merriell had, admittedly, spent a little too much time perfecting, picking each side until the tape gives way instead of just tearing into it eagerly like the other guys. And it makes sense, Eugene was always a tedious sort of guy, but Merriell can’t help his heart swelling a little bit in his chest. Merriell watches Eugene’s eyes widen when he flips open the lid, fingers grazing the gift gently, like he’ll disrupt it otherwise. 

One of the boys asks what it is. Merriell realizes how long it’s been silent for. Bing Crosby has since faded out, or was at least silenced by the blood rushing through Merriell’s ears. He can’t read Eugene, doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it, or is indifferent towards it or  _ what _ , but it’s driving Merriell up the wall. 

“It’s a pipe,” Eugene says, a little bit breathless. Bill makes grabby hands for it, to which Eugene reluctantly hands it over. 

“Wow,” he says, leaning the box over to Bob, who whistles low at it. “Whoever gave this to you is at best in love with you, Gene.” 

The rest of them laugh, but Merriell can only bring himself to force a smile. Eugene looks at him from across the circle, and Merriell knows that he’s done for. Somewhere in the next few minutes Chuckler suggests that they play Up Jenkins, but Merriell can’t even breathe, so he excuses himself and goes outside for a smoke. 

He’s shivering because he’s cold. Not because he’s nervous. Definitely not. It’s because it’s negative fifteen and he didn’t bring gloves. He struggles embarrassingly to light his cigarette, even with his hand to cover the flame. It’s got to be at least a minute or two before he finally gets it, the combination of the cold and never-seizing tremors screwing him up beyond belief. 

He finds it very hard to pinpoint the exact time that he realized he was in love with Eugene. Because it wasn’t an all at once sort of thing, because he hated him the first time he saw him. He would rather let the enemy skin him alive than let a new recruit bunk up with him. He was an asshole to Eugene because he liked how the soft-looking boy would scowl at him, but never say anything because he knew that he couldn't. But eventually, gradually, Merriell grew to like him. The first time Merriell offered him a cigarette, and he’d scoffed and grunted that he didn’t smoke, then the second time, the first time Eugene had watched someone die, that he took it with trembling hands with no reluctance and let Merriell light it for him. And the third time, when Merriell was the one to ask, and Eugene held two out to him silently, a truce.  

_ Thanks, Sledgehammer.  _

Merriell did nicknames, of course he did nicknames, every marine had a nickname from something that they did or said, or the way they acted, every marine gave other marines nicknames, it was just the way things went. But Merriell felt different when he said that. It was after they’d held a sort of silent conversation after a verbal one, the first time Merriell ever let Eugene see that he wasn’t a dickhead all the time. Maybe it was then. Or maybe it was that time in Pavuvu when he did share his bunk with Eugene, and it was just the two of them, and he would sit at night and watch Eugene write in his bible, tallies, usually, sometimes circling certain passages, tent glowing yellow with the kerosene lamp, but Eugene’s auburn hair glowing golden. 

Perhaps it had been the time where they sat where no one could see them, sharing a cigarette and passing smoke between each other, their knees flush, their eyes locked together, never moving, a time they didn’t talk about, the time that Merriell realized how badly he wanted to kiss Eugene. 

It may have even been the last time Merriell saw him, when it really sunk in. It had hurt, to know that he would be leaving him forever, but he couldn’t say goodbye. Not when all he wanted to do was hold onto Eugene and never let go, but he couldn’t. Because Eugene had a better life. Better things than anything Merriell could ever give him. He didn’t have the money or the education of the family that Eugene was used to, he couldn’t give Eugene the things he needed. He wasn’t worth Eugene’s time. Eugene deserved better than Merriell. 

He’s almost done his cigarette when he hears footsteps crunching in the snow. He can feel from the warmth that all of a sudden shows up that it’s Eugene, knew the second he heard the footsteps that it was Eugene, but he doesn’t want it to be Eugene. He wishes it was anyone but Eugene. Merriell doesn’t look at him straight away, just flicks his cigarette butt into the little bucket filled with sand, but covered with snow, and pulls another one from his pack. 

He’s not expecting it when Eugene takes the cigarette from his fingers and takes a drag. Merriell’s eyes meet his slowly, and he forces a scowl, but he doesn’t care. 

“Thought you didn’t like cigarettes,” he says quietly, as there’s nothing else he could say that could possibly make the situation any better. 

“I don’t, really,” Eugene says, passing it back to Merriell easily. Of course Eugene would do something like that just to break the ice. He blows the smoke away, but the wind makes it come right back to him, so he coughs on it. Merriell smiles. 

For a while they’re just standing there silently, staring out at the quiet suburban street, sharing a cigarette. Merriell doesn’t know what to say, he especially doesn’t know how he’s going to respond if Eugene says anything, so silence is nice. There’s so much built up between them that only a few words could send everything rushing out. Merriell would much rather keep this friendly border between them than have to venture into something he doesn’t even know if he could handle, something he’s kept so bottled away for years. 

But at a certain point he realizes that they’re probably going to have to talk about it. Unless after tonight they go on for another five years with no call, no letter, but that’s worst case scenario. They can’t go on forever ignoring something so important. It’s not like Eugene will just brush everything off and tell him everything is okay, because it isn’t. Nothing is okay between them, no matter how hard they want to pretend it is. 

“Thank you,” Eugene says suddenly, voice startling Merriell out of his head. 

“What for, Sledgehammer?” Merriell tests the name out again. It’s probably as weird to Eugene as it is to Merriell, but he needs to test things, see how far he can push it without it breaking. Eugene is red from ear to ear, and for the sake of Merriell’s wellbeing, he tells himself it’s the cold. 

“The pipe.”

Merriell nods. He knows he had been see-through but he wasn’t  _ that  _ see-through. There’s no point in denying it, and even though Merriell probably wouldn’t have given it to Eugene unless the stupid Secret Santa game was put in place, he can’t seem to find a reason not to shrug his shoulders guiltily. “What gave it away?” he asks quietly, bashful, which he can see throws Eugene off guard because he’s not used to this. He’s not used to Merriell being anything other than cocky and annoying and emotionless. Merriell has no resolve around Eugene, though, and if he ever did, the barely-there resolve is quickly diminishing. 

“The carving,” Eugene explains. It makes sense. The pipe was mahogany and oak, with a gloss finish, something that wouldn’t distinguish it from any other pipe, but what made it stand out was the carvings in the bowl. He had gone and gotten different leaves carved into it, with their vines wrapping all the way up the stem, because he knew Eugene liked that. It was one of the only things that Eugene told him from back home, and he would take anything he could know. “You were the only person that I ever told about liking botany. You’re one of the only people that didn’t make fun of me for it, either.” Eugene takes the last drag if the cigarette and flicks it until it’s out, then tosses it in the bucket. 

“I mean, there’s lots’a things to make fun’a you for, Gene, but that’s not one of ‘em.” 

Eugene punches his shoulder, but he’s smiling. 

Another wave of silence passes, and then, out of nowhere, Eugene pulls Merriell into an embrace. It’s like his whole world comes crashing down because hey don’t do this, they’ve never done this, no matter how much Merriell had wanted it. He’s spend to long pining and admiring from afar that even getting to this, this mundane stage seemed like a life achievement. It’s so strange that his whole body tenses up, and Eugene must take that as a sign that he doesn’t want it, so he starts to pull away. But he can’t let him, so his arms snake around Eugene’s waist and hold him in place. 

“Eugene,” Merriell breathes out quietly, slowly, like if he doesn’t say it Eugene will turn into mist and vanish before his eyes. Eugene presses his nose, cold with the weather, to the side of Merriell’s neck. The action is too intimate, this is all too intimate, they should be doing this in private, not outside of Robert Leckie’s house in his white picket fence neighbourhood in a suburb of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

“ _ Merriell _ ,” Eugene says. It sends a shiver up Merriell’s spine. Eugene has never called him by his name before, and God, does he like it. 

“I’m sorry,” Merriell says. He knows what for, there’s a multitude of things. 

“Don’t,” Eugene says. “Not right now.”

The  _ IMissYou  _ between them is silent, but it’s there, ever permeating the air, making it hard for Merriell to breathe. Maybe it’s Eugene that makes it hard for him to breathe. It wouldn’t be surprising; he’s been making it difficult all night. Eventually, Eugene moves so that their noses, icy cold and bright red, are pressed against each other. If Merriell were to just move his head a little-- no, they shouldn’t. Not right here. Not while they’re so exposed. 

“We shouldn’t.” Eugene nods, moves away like he’s disappointed. Merriell grabs his wrist. “Not here, I mean.” 

“My hotel is only twenty minutes from here. I rented a car. I can make it ten.”

Merriell’s heart skips. “Okay.”

Ultimately, the cold starts to really set in and they really can’t handle it, so they go back in with the others. Over the past twenty minutes, Eugene and Merriell have missed Chuckler somehow getting even more drunk and Jay joining him. (Merriell figures it’s something to do with a rigged drinking game). The girls are sat on the couch watching their husbands act like children. Maybe they haven’t really missed anything too exciting. 

They leave without any of the guys really noticing, explaining to the girls to tell their husbands that Merriell needed a ride, so Eugene offered, to Florence that it was nice finally meeting her after Burgie went on about her for so long, and that they’d have to meet up again some day, and a thank you to Vera for hosting and being so kind. 

Eugene really does make it ten minutes. Merriell can see that he’s tense, he can see from the way he grips the wheel that he’s tense, and Merriell is tense, too. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen once they get there. Will they talk? Will they bypass talking entirely?

The hotel looks very Eugene, even though it’s only his for a few days. It’s a nice suite, bigger than anything Merriell had imagined, but there’s books scattered about and nice clothes strewn on furniture. There’s an open sketchbook on the table with a few sketches of plants Merriell has never seen before with some notes he can’t make out so far away. 

“Home sweet some away from home,” Eugene says blandly, taking off his coat and shoes. Merriell does the same, leaving everything in a heap on the floor because he can’t be bothered. It’s quiet for a moment while Merriell takes everything in. 

He laughs a little bit. “Fuckin’ rich boy.”

Eugene rolls his eyes, but moves so he’s standing in front of Merriell again. They’re almost on opposite sides of the room, but their eye contact is heavy. “I don’t know why you bought something so nice for me. That had to have cost a pretty penny, Snaf. Why’d you do it?”

“Because I’m a guilty sonuvabitch. Because I didn’t want you to hate me. I don’t know, Gene.” 

“Why would I hate you?”

Merriell can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe that Eugene is acting like he doesn’t know, acting like Merriell didn’t fuck him over. 

“Because I--” Merriell can’t seem to finish. The words are caught in his throat. He breathes out slowly, calming himself. He can’t avoid this forever. “Because I left you, Sledge.”

Eugene deflates. This is it. Merriell is going to be thrown out, or he’s going to cause something else like he always does. He knows it. “You did.” The silence between them is deafening. They’re just staring at each other for a few minutes while Eugene collects his thoughts. “But I don’t hate you for it.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.” Eugene takes a step forward, then another, and then a few more until he’s right in front of Merriell. 

“But you  _ should _ .”

Eugene sighs, and Merriel thinks something bad is going to happen before Eugene takes his face into his hands. Maybe this is the bad thing. Lots of people would say so. “Merriell,” Eugene says, and Merriell is  _ dying _ . “I woke up disoriented in Alabama with no one I knew in sight. You hadn’t woken me up to say goodbye, or even at least left a note. I thought I’d done something wrong. But I didn’t blame you. I understood you more as a person then I let on, you know.” 

“Gene--” but Merriell can’t finish because Eugene is kissing him. Screw dying, Merriell is  _ melting _ . He’s going to be nothing but a pile of goop at Eugene’s feet if they keep this up. And it’s innocent, so innocent, for years of waiting and days of  _ wanting _ , for two men nearly thirty, it’s almost too gentle, too wary, like there was even the slightest hint that Merriell would ever tell him no, tell him to stop.

Something evil in Merriell is telling him this is bad, this is wrong, that he shouldn’t ruin Eugene like this. That he’s too clean to mess with something dirty like Merriell, but he just wants, and wants, and eventually that overpowers it. Eugene is the human equivalent of that first drag of a cigarette in the morning. He’s the colour of the sun creeping through blinds into a darkened room. He’s the scratch of a needle on a record. Eugene is like everything Merriell appreciates, and he finally, finally has him, after five years, after pining, after regret. 

At some point, the mood switches entirely. Eugene’s hands are cold where they slip under Merriell’s shirt, untucking it from high-waisted slacks. He kisses with more fervor, more conviction, like he  _ really  _ means it. Merriell wants to ask what he’s doing, if he’s sure, but he doesn’t want to break it. 

At some point he gets pressed against the wall, at another he gets his fingers in Eugene’s stupidly styled hair, fucking it up for the good of the both of them. Eugene is caging him, holding him in place, and it makes Merriell weak in the knees. Eventually, Merriell wants and wants and wants so much that he hardly knows what to do with besides just let Eugene take and take and take, and eventually, he can feel Eugene pressing against his hip, and something in Merriell clicks. 

“Gene,” he rasps, keening into where Eugene bites and nibbles and then kisses away the pain. “Take me. Take me, please.” 

Eugene stops, looks at him. He looks confused, like he doesn’t get it, like he doesn’t understand that it’s him that makes Merriell turn like this, that it’s  _ always  _ been him. 

“Eugene, I swear to fuckin’ God, just  _ please _ .” 

Eugene nods. “Yeah. Okay. Okay, yeah. Yeah. Bedroom?” Eugene trips over his own feet on the way there, out of something Merriell can’t quite pinpoint, but can’t bring himself to laugh at either. Because this is real. This is happening. At least, he hopes he’s not imagining it. His brain can be very cruel at times, but this would be pushing it. 

Merriell nearly tosses him on the bed when he just stands there for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself. He makes this strangled sort of noise, but regains composure quickly, his hands sliding over Merriell’s hips and pulling him on top of himself. From there it’s a little hazy. Merriell can recall Eugene plucking open each of the little buttons on his shirt and him nearly tearing that ugly sweater off of Eugene’s body, then Eugene kissing the rest of the clothing off of him, but somehow they both end up naked and hard and breathing heavily against each other as they take turns kissing various parts of the other’s body. 

Eugene is so warm. Maybe not even in the physical sense, although he is. He just feels warm, metaphorically. His presence overtop of Merriell makes warmth flood his stomach, reaching all the way out to the top of his head and the tips of his toes. Eugene is still pretty, too; he’s still got a soft stomach and freckles all the way down his back, his skin turned golden from the Alabama sun. His eyes have flecks of gold in them from the shitty lamp when he looks down at Merriell, to watch the way he squirms when Eugene finally, finally touches him in the place he needs it. 

“You need to stretch me,” Merriell says through a gasp when Eugene’s fingers dip down below. 

“I know,” Eugene says, like he’s annoyed that Merriell thinks he  _ wouldn’t  _ know. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

For some reason that makes Merriell jealous, so he pulls Eugene’s head level to his and kisses him forcefully. Soon enough Eugene is fumbling around for something, so Merriell lets him go. He almost laughs when he sees what Eugene was fishing for. Eugene must be able to tell, because he narrows his eyes but he’s blushing. 

“My lips get chapped, okay? Shut up.”

“You keep a king sized tub’a Vaseline beside your bed because your lips chap. Okay, Gene. Whatever you say.”

“Do you want me to fuck you or not?” He’s joking, but it must snap Merriell out of it because he whimpers quietly and nods his head. Eugene must not be expecting it because he has to sit back for a second before he realizes that he’s left Merriell laying there hard and exposed and shivering from the cold. 

The first finger stings, it always does, but Merriell can’t lie and say he doesn’t like it. He almost wants Eugene to hurt him, because maybe deep down he thinks he deserves it, deserves Eugene’s anger for being such an insensitive piece of shit. But he knows that Eugene would never hurt him, even if Merriell asked him to, even if Eugene thought he deserved it, because he’s too good for it. He’s always been too good. 

There’s a second finger, then a third, then a break right before Merriell feels the weight of Eugene right where he wants him. 

He realizes that with every kiss Eugene presses to his skin when the stretch starts to burn that maybe it’s not because Merriell thinks he’s too good, it’s because he trusts Eugene. Maybe he wants Eugene to treat him badly, but he trusts that he won’t. They know each other, but they don’t know each other’s bodies, not well at least. They’ve seen but they never explored, never ventured. He trusts that Eugene will see when he’s ticking and know when he’s going to go off. 

“Fuck me better than you fuck your ‘Bama boys,” Merriell says cockily, although through a whimper. It’s a front he’s putting up, and it won’t stay like this forever, but it’s good for the time being.

Eugene scoffs, but he rams into Merriell like he means it, so it must be getting him somewhere. “Boy,” Eugene corrects, unbelievably nonchalant for what he’s doing. Merriell probably sounds like a two dollar whore. “Just one. And he’s not mine.”

“Whose is he?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Merriell often feels like a finicky showerhead. Always too hot or too cold. Too brash or too quiet. Too rude or too nice. He trusts Eugene to make him just right for once in his fucked up life. 

It’s good, so good, He can feel Eugene everywhere. He’s surrounding him, inside of him, every piece of Merriell is covered by Eugene one way or another, and he’s got his forehead to Merriell’s, just looking at his eyes, peering into Merriell’s mind, his soul. He feels more vulnerable now than he did when Eugene was staring at him naked, because he’s staring  _ into  _ him naked, and that’s a whole lot scarier. He feels like he can read every thought in his head, that he can hear every word swimming in his brain, every I love you, ever I miss you, every Eugene, Eugene, Eugene, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,  _ I’m so sorry- _ -

“Shh,” Eugene hushes him. “It’s okay.”

Oh. Has he been saying all of that out loud? He can’t even hear himself over everything that’s going on in his head (or maybe more accurately: unknowingly coming out of his mouth), every little blip of something to worry about and the need he feels in his heart and his stomach to let go, albeit for two different reasons. 

He hardly registers when Eugene wipes his cheeks, but he does register the fact that they’re wet. Fuck. He’s crying too? What is going on? 

His back arches when Eugene gives it to him especially hard, but he likes it, God, he loves it, he wants to let go so bad but he also never wants it to end. He’s scrambling to get his hands on Eugene, anywhere on him, to touch him, to know he’s real. He settles for one gripping his shoulder and the other in his hair, maybe grabbing a little too tight but he can’t even muster the energy to care because he’s so focused on needing to feel. Merriell wants Eugene to make it so that he remembers it, so that he feels it for the next day, and the day after that, and three days after that. He wants Eugene to talk to him, to let him know how he feels, to tell the truth, to say Merriell’s name. He wants Eugene to leave bruises on him that won’t fade so that when he goes back to New Orleans and he’s all alone again he’ll just have to look in the mirror and he’ll be back in a grand suite at a nice hotel in fucking Philly. Merriell just wants and wants and wants and one day someone if going to tell him it’s enough. 

“Mer,” Eugene huffs out softly, gently, like he always does. “Merriell, fuck, I--” but he can’t finish. It’s enough. Maybe he’s reading Merriell’s brain, maybe he knows what he wants, or maybe Merriell’s just thinking out loud again. 

“Talk to me,” Merriell gasps. He can feel the pressure building in his stomach and Eugene hasn’t even laid a finger on him. It’s pathetic, how easy Eugene makes him. “Please, Gene, talk to me.” 

“I missed you,” Eugene says. “I missed you so fucking much. I hated that you left me, but I never fucking blamed you, never. I knew that you loved me, even back before. I think I knew before you did that you loved me, Mer, fuck--” when Eugene breaks off, his hips stutter, his whole body shakes. He’s close, but so is Merriell. He’s teetering on the edge, he might go off soon, but does Eugene realize? “I-- I loved you back then too, Merriell.”

“Do you still?” Merriell asks. It’s hardly coherent with how he’s panting and biting back a whine but Eugene still understands. 

“I never fucking stopped.”

And like that, Merriell lets go. He makes a mess of himself and he knows it, but he blacks out too fast for him to fuss. 

When he comes to, Eugene is cleaning up between his legs and his chest, and he’s glad for it, because he’d surely bitch about it, but he’s also upset because he blacked out for too long so see Eugene. 

“Don’t worry,” Eugene says. “You’ll have plenty more times to see it.” 

He has got to fucking stop saying shit out loud without even realizing it. 

“I thought you were just being blatant.”

_ Fuck _ . 

“Fuck is right.” 

_ FUCK _ . 

Eugene doesn’t respond this time, so either he’s ignoring Merriell, or Merriell’s brain has decided to let him come back to his body. He’d be content with either. 

“Were you just saying that?” Merriell asks. Eugene is still naked fumbling to turn off all the lights. Merriell wasn’t planning on leaving, but it feels weird that Eugene isn’t asking him to stay and just making it so he has no other choice. He cocks his head when he walks back over to the bed.

“Saying what?” he asks. He climbs under the covers and pulls them out from under Merriell so that they can share them. The position they lay in is familiar in a way they shouldn’t be. Eugene lays with his head on Merriell’s chest, Merriell’s hands loosely wrapped around his shoulders. They used to lay like this when Eugene would wake up with a nightmare. Merriell wonders if he stills gets them, but he figures Eugene must. If he had them even during, like hell they would go away after. He used to get them when they were stationed in China, especially. He would always pretend like it was nothing, and brush it off when Merriell would ask, but they stopped for a while when Merriell would climb into his bunk. 

“That you--” he can’t seem to say it now. He hopes Eugene understands, because he’s not sure he can force himself to say it. “When you were talking to me.”

It’s quiet for a moment, like Eugene is taking it in. “I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t just saying that?” 

“No. It probably didn’t make any sense, but any coherent part of it that you heard was honest.” 

Merriell nods. Okay. He can work with this. 

“Do you--”

“Stay with me,” Eugene says, cutting him off. “I’m here for a week. Stay with me here. We can talk about it later. Just not now.”

“Okay,” Merriell says. He can’t let this go again, now that he’s got it. “I’ll stay, Gene.”

It’s quiet for a moment. The wind whips against the window, rattling it in its frame. When Merriell glances over, it’s blizzarding again. It’s cold outside, and Merriell knows it, but Eugene is warm, so warm against him, skin to skin. He’s nuzzled his face into the crook of Merriell’s neck, and his hair is tickling Merriell’s throat, but he can’t even be bothered by it. 

“What time is it?” Eugene mumbles pitifully. Merriell leans over to turn off the lamp and glance at the clock. 

“Almost one,” he says. Darkness falls over them. He can feel Eugene smile into his neck. 

“Merry Christmas, Mer.”

For once, Merriell is smiling too. “Yeah, you too.”

Outside their window, the wind howls on.

 


End file.
